


Kiln and Crack

by Phiso



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10852749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso/pseuds/Phiso
Summary: Barty had not been born this way. He had been born with his ambition and curiosity, but as his father smashed him and reshaped him and demanded re-kilning after re-kilning, large swaths of his personality melted and fused into something else, while other portions snapped and fractured. Barty was never allowed to fill his cracks with gold, so he found other ways to fix them.





	Kiln and Crack

“You. Look at me.”

The prisoner seated before him automatically turned away, scanning the empty room for _something_ to use, tugging at the ropes keeping him tied to the chair. Not a fan of subordination, Barty leaned forward and traced the line of the man’s jaw with the pad of a finger before taking a gentle hold of his chin and digging his nails into the skin. The man inhaled sharply, and Barty yanked his face forward to study his gaze.

“I said, look at me.”

 

Barty Crouch, Jr. was hard person to see.

Occasionally it was just hard to look at him: he was a slight, pale boy that managed to grow in height and not much too much else, and always looked a little off-colour. When his father was around, he was pulled tight and stiff, on high alert; when his father was away, there was a hungry, angry look in his eye that made every polite word a threat. Any muscles he had acquired playing as Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team were easily hidden away beneath his shirts and sweaters; he imagined he would never go far beyond lithe, but as it was, that was no real loss. Muscles were not necessary for the sorts of things he wanted to do.

 

The man did his best not to blink as Barty took him in, grasping at defiance as their stare held. He, after all, was a grown man, while Barty was just a teenager - a child, really. This defiance fluttered as Barty slowly and surely pressed the tip of his wand against the man’s sternum, a smile growing on Barty’s lips as the pressure increased.

“You think you have power over me,” Barty observed, his eyes gliding over the grey in the man’s brown hair before meeting his gaze again. “You think being old and a Ministry employee makes you superior to me.”

The man swallowed hard.

“You’re not, you know,” Barry continued, voice conversational as he dug his wand into the man’s chest, warmth emanating from the tip. He could have been talking about the weather. “You’re a waste of space. Your blood isn’t even worth the dirt on this floor, so I won’t bother making a mess on it.”

 

He was a young man of many strengths, though the vast majority weren’t visible. He was wicked smart, catching patterns quickly and picking up spells even faster. The Crouch family, for all the trash it harboured in its name, was a bloodline made of magic, and the hexes he learned were a birthright. He knew precisely how others viewed him and used it to his advantage, always choosing when and where to be eager, clueless, cruel, and kind. Being the son of a politician had taught him the importance of a false but convincing face; being the spawn of Barty Crouch, Sr. made sure he acquired a sharp eye for tells. He, much like his father, held a blazing fire in his chest that fueled a single-minded mission. He, also like his father, did not much care who died in his quest for power.

Really, people should know better than to get in his way.

 

A gasp escaped the man as the warmth spreading across his chest grew hotter and hotter. Heart racing, he tried to look down to Barty’s wand, to see what he was doing, but Barty jerked his chin back up, refusing him the privilege of knowing what was happening to him.

“All you needed to do was give me that form,” Barty said, shaking his head in disappointment. “That’s all. A piece of parchment, like so many others you cover your desk with. You wouldn’t have even missed it.”

The heat in his chest was becoming unbearable, the pain spreading up his shoulders and down his arms. The man let out an involuntary whine, his chest heaving in panic and sweat dripping from his face, though he couldn’t tell if it was from fear or whatever Barty was doing to his chest. “Pl-please, let me - let me just get it for you now -”

“Too late. You could have avoided this, but instead you decided to get all _noble_ on me.” Barty rolled his eyes. “Some nobility, too - look at this, faced with death, and you throw your honor away without hesitation. It wasn’t even worth dying for.”

The man let out a strangled cry in place of a response. Something was melting into his skin, he could feel it scorching and cutting, and it was making it near impossible to focus on everything Barty was saying. If it weren’t for his frantic need to find a way out of this, he would have missed everything.

Barty made a face. “Pathetic.”

 

Barty had not been born this way. He had been born with his ambition and curiosity, but as his father smashed him and reshaped him and demanded re-kilning after re-kilning, large swaths of his personality melted and fused into something else, while other portions snapped and fractured. Barty was never allowed to fill his cracks with gold, so he found other ways to fix them.

 

The searing pain spread down to the man’s stomach and he jerked his head down, terrified and desperate to know what was happening, but Barty kept his grip strong.

“We could have both been rewarded, but now look at what I have to do to cover my tracks.” A glint danced in Barty’s eyes as he stole a quick glance down. “Don’t worry, though. They won’t find you. I’ll be fine.”

A wheezing sob tore out of the man's throat, his tears cooling his feverish skin, and Barty smiled, savoring the sound.

The man tried one last attempt at pleading for his life, while his lungs could still manage to inflate, while he still had enough presence of mind to appeal to Barty’s better side. “I - I have a family, please, I have a son, he’s your age -”

“Do you?” Barty threw his head back and laughed, keeping his hand tight on the man’s face. “Fantastic! I’ll see to it that he gets the same end as good ‘ol dad.”

The man’s heart dropped into his stomach with such a swoop he wondered if it had actually happened, if Barty’s spell had cut through his veins and muscles and let it fall. His lungs, working feebly, managed to produce one long, rasping whimper.

“Here, just for that, I’ll let you see what’s going to happen to him,” Barty said, grinning madly. “Before you lose the ability to see.”

The man looked down as soon as his face was free, and a scream bubbled up in his throat as he saw his body burning away without a fire, his clothes glowing cinders, his bright red skin gradually darkening to black. Instead of a scream, a strange gurgling wail came out of him, dying as the flameless fire spread up his neck and burned his voice away.

“All that will be left of the two of you will be ashes. I’ll be sure to tell him it’s your fault, of course,” Barty said helpfully. “That way he can die knowing what his father was really like.” He dug his wand in again, spreading a wave of blistering heat across the man’s body, eyelids heavy with pleasure as the man twitched and shook in silent pain. “Don’t worry. I know just what he needs.”

 

Finding gold to fix one’s cracks took too long for the Crouches, and Bary quickly learned it wasn’t worth it in the long run. Forgiveness was flimsy, and something people settled with when they couldn’t get anything better.  

No, better to use those sharp edges than get rid of them. Why get rid of the perfectly good weapons life gave you? Revenge lasted so much longer than compassion.

And, most importantly, it was far, far more satisfying.


End file.
